Split
by LiverQuiver
Summary: Stan is struggling to get rid of his split personality disorder and lead a normal teenage life. However, Craig is growing tired of being just a figment of his imagination... Slight Style and Creek.
1. Prologue

.Prologue.

**Keep in mind that I'm not an expert on Dissociative Identity Disorder (more commonly known as split personality disorder or multiple personality disorder). In fact, the case in this fic is probably exaggerated a bit so it's easier to see when an identity change is taking place.**

I don't own South Park or any of its characters.

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_Breathing each others lives_  
_Holding this in mind_  
_That if we fall, we all fall_  
_And we fall alone_**  
**-Attack by System of a Down

* * *

"We're constantly fighting for control."

Dr. Gregory Yardale nodded as he jotted down a few more notes onto his clipboard. I discreetly tried to peek at his writings, but gave up after deciding that it was probably impossible to read his chicken scratching anyway. He looked up with his tired blue eyes and brush back a strand of blond hair that fell onto his forehead.

"Who do you feel is winning?"

I adjusted my blue beanie and gave him a long look. Dr. Yardale kept eye contact and waited patiently for an answer while I thought of whether to feed him the same crap I have been for months or to tell him the truth - that I was getting worse. I smiled and decided to stick with the former.

"I hardly hear him anymore."

The young psychologist looked unconvinced, but didn't press further. He frowned and wrote a bit more on his clipboard before looking up at me again and finally capping his pen. I glanced at the clock, recognizing his usual signal that the session was over. However, I noticed that there was at least twenty minutes left. I looked back at the blond with a raised eyebrow.

"Okay then, Stan, no clipboard. No notes. Just me. What's really going on?" Gregory held the side of his face in his hand and waited. I wasn't buying it. No matter what he promised, we both knew that he would eventually have to report back to my parents and I would be back at square one. My eyes narrowed as I felt a familiar wave of nausea wash over me and I tried to hold back what was about to happen.

_OhgodnotnownononoPLEASE._

Dr. Yardale's eyebrows seemed to reach his hairline as he saw me clench my fists and narrow my eyes. I tried to hide the pressure, but something pushed through my brain with such force that my head hurt as a result of trying to suppress what was inevitable. After what seemed like a lifetime, I let go a breath I hadn't known I was holding and felt myself slip away.

Silence.

"Stan, are you alright?" Gregory looked on with concern and spoke in a low voice. He waited for a response and promptly received a harsh glare paired off with a raised middle finger. Dr. Yardale smiled wryly, for his fears were confirmed. Nothing he was doing was working. The boy was lying when he said he was getting better - he only needed better help.

"Pleasure to see you again, Craig." The blond said sarcastically, pretending to tip his hat.

The dark-haired boy smirked and slumped in his chair.

"Pleasure's all mine."

Gregory shook his head and grabbed his clipboard again. "I'm going to have to ask you to let Stan have control again. We're not finished with his session."

Craig scowled and rose to his feet, eyes dangerously narrowed at the psychologist.

"Forget it. You fuckers had better stop trying to get rid of me."

"Or...?" Dr. Yardale raised a blond eyebrow, almost challenging him. Craig allowed a small humorless smile to slip onto his face.

"Or maybe I won't let Stan back at all." Gregory rolled his eyes and stood, ushering Craig out the door. They both knew it was pointless to stay until the end of the session. Nobody got anywhere when Craig was around. The older male sighed to himself, feeling like he was failing at his job.

It had been six years so far. And it didn't seem like Craig was leaving anytime soon.


	2. Chapter One: Old Friend

**.A/N.  
This chapter isn't as long as I intended it to be, but it's still alright (at least in my opinion).  
I don't own South Park or any of its characters.**

**.Warnings.  
Mature themes and subject matter, drug use, homosexuality (which shouldn't even be considered something to warn people about), and profanity, which will become quite frequent when certain characters enter the story.**

**On a side note, don't use meth. It ruins your life. Also, forgive me for spelling or grammar mistakes. Spell check doesn't like working with me.**

_The lights are on and someone's home  
But I'm not sure if they're alone  
__There's someone else inside my head  
__Living there to fill me with dread  
__-_Pumpkin Soup by Kate Nash

* * *

"Rumor has it that Stan's coming back."

A tall, awkward looking teenage boy plopped down on the dusty warehouse floor, pulling the strings to his orange parka tighter. He picked at his worn black skinny jeans and heaved an irritated sigh when he was ignored by his companion. Determined to get the latter's attention, he removed one of his pink converse shoes and whacked him on the back. Shrieking something in what was almost impossible to be identified as English, the other teen shot up from his hunched over position and wiped his nose, making sure he didn't miss anything.

"W-What, Kenny? Jesus Christ, I'm busy..." He rolled up the sleeves to his poorly buttoned green shirt and muttered angrily about not being able to finish his lines without interruption.

"You hearin' me, Tweek?" The hood strings to the orange parka were loosened again and the hood was lowered, revealing a mop of messy sandy-blond hair framing a face that would be considered quite attractive if it weren't for the unfortunate blemishes.

Kenny raised a blond eyebrow and absent-mindedly picked at his acne while Tweek shook his head and wiped at a small stream of blood that dripped from his left nostril. It had been a while since he had the chance to crank. A small pool of light made its way through the dusty warehouse windows and pooled on the floor next to the boys. Kenny swatted at a stray cat that made it's way over to his back pocket, sniffing and pawing at the pack of chewing gum he had tucked away.

"Stan's coming on Sunday."

Tweek froze and momentarilly forgot about his bloody nose. His eyes widened at the taller boy in shock as the crimson fluid trailed down his chin and dripped onto his lap.

"Eager to see him?" Tweek visibly twitched and began to shake with mixed emotion. He grunted and turned back to his lines, nodding in affirmation. Kenny re-tied the shoe he had just recently smacked his friend with and smirked knowingly.

Stan wasn't the one Tweek really wanted to reunite with.

* * *

**.Chapter One.  
**_Old Friend_

* * *

I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't normal. In fact, I considered myself far less than sane; though Craig believed that I was just being too hard on myself and that I was simply a little "fucked up."

_What can I say? I have a way with words._

The grass I was sitting on was damp and I could feel the water beginning to soak through my jeans. My best friend Kyle chuckled a bit at my discomfort and I pouted at him. He looked nice and dry sitting on the surfaced roots of the large tree we were under, and I threw my empty pudding cup at him in faux-irritation. We laughed together for a little while until he suddenly looked at me very seriously.

"So does this mean they're locking you up again?"

He asked the question quietly and avoided my gaze, seemingly afraid of the answer. I rolled my eyes and lightly punched his shoulder, knocking him off of his root. It was too easy to catch him off-guard sometimes. At sixteen years old, the boy wasn't very masculine. He had a strange diet due to his diabetes and his mother's insistence that he always eat kosher, so he didn't have a lot of meat on his bones. He stood at five feet and eight inches which wasn't much compared to my being just over six feet tall. He tugged nervously at an orange curl that escaped from his green ushanka and met my eyes when I replied.

"I was never locked up, dude," I made a face at him and reached for my Pepsi bottle, "it's some kind of voluntary thing. For, like, teens or something."

_'Voluntary', eh? That's a riot. Your folks are the one doing the volunteering _for _us, faggot._

I ignored Craig and took a sip of my soda without taking my eyes off of Kyle. His sharp green eyes were focused on his sandwich, expression unreadable. His flushed face returned to it's normal paleness as the wind died down, making the freckles that sprinkled across his face stand out more. I suddently processed the end of Craig's comment and blushed, looking away so my best friend wouldn't notice. There was a snicker in the back of my mind as my alter continued attempting to push his way forward - but I remained obstinate, at least until I got home. I hated it when Kyle had to see Craig.

"How long this time?" The redhead's voice was still quiet, a sure sign that I'd made him upset. I sighed heavily, wondering how to break the news. We were almost inseperable, so he was naturally a mess when I left last time.

"A little while." _A few months._

I had started developing Dissociative Identity Disorder when I was ten years old. Craig was formed from the confidence I wished I had - not to mention the cynicism I kept bottled up. I was bullied a lot; the other kids seemed to never tire of teasing me for being too sensitive, too dumb, too awkward, too boring - and Kyle could only do so much defending. Eventually, Craig was born from all the hurt and ridicule. I never enjoyed his presence, but I must admit that I appreciated him stepping in when I couldn't handle something.

_Don't be a pussy. I just can't resist a good fight._

Craig's boldness and short fuse got me in more trouble than I'd like to admit. I was always in the principal's office, and our hospital bills were off the charts because of broken bones and other injuries due to schoolyard brawls that I didn't initiate. Even going to the dentist pissed Craig off. About a month after my thirteenth birthday, I went in for a check-up because tooth decay had a thing for me. I guess the stress of being in the chair proved to be too much, because next thing I knew, I woke up handcuffed to a metal bench at the police station with the coppery taste of blood in my mouth.

Craig disliked seeing the dentist. He also had a powerful bite.

Luckily, the dentist decided not to press charges after my "condition" was explained to him, but my family did have to pay for his stitches. The next week, my parents told me to pack my things and shipped me off to the Stoley Treatment Centre for Adolescents. I was told it was only some short psychotherapy visit, but it was just an opportunity for my parents to put me somewhere so they didn't have to deal with me for a while. I was in that institute for nearly six months and neither me nor Kyle were happy about the separation. Craig didn't know what to think - he had his reasons for wanting to go back to the Stoley Centre and for wanting to stay as far away as possible.

"I'll miss you," Kyle fixed his green eyes on my face, but I couldn't make eye contact for fear of getting too emotional. I wanted to lighten the mood by joking about how gay he sounded, but decided I wasn't really one to talk. After all, I had been in love with the guy since eighth grade.

There was no way I could've ever let him know how strongly I felt about him. Kyle had been my best friend since preschool and was all I had. His friendship was the only good thing going for me and I'd be damned if I let a dumb little love confession ruin that.

_Wow. An emotional DID victim with homo-gay feelings for his Jewish best friend. Your life kinda sucks._

I really wished Craig would shut up once in a while.

A car horn honked loudly in the parking lot of Parker High School and I rose to my feet, not bothering to pick up what was left of my lunch.

"My mom's here. I gotta go..." Kyle raised a red eyebrow at me and began to pack his backpack. He was most likely planning on sitting with Clyde's group, as he usually did when I wasn't there to keep him company.

"So soon? There's still two periods left of school," He swung his bag over his shoulder and stood, wiping the back of his green skinny jeans clean of any dust that clinged to him while sitting. I gripped the straps of my own backpack tightly and nervously bit my bottom lip.

"I have to pack. I'm leaving tomorrow."

Kyle's eyes quickly grew wider and his eyebrows drew together in hurt and shock. I rub the back of my neck and only frowned when he raised a tightly clenched fist and punched me on the arm. Luckily, he wasn't a very strong person, so the assault didn't hurt on the surface.

"Why didn't you _tell _me?" I shifted my weight back and forth uncomfortably and sighed. In retrospect, keeping the news of the exact date of my departure from Kyle until the last moment wasn't a very good idea. Courtesy of his mother, the boy had quite a temper about certain things. I noticed that the group of goth kids sitting by the school wall near us fell silent, watching the commotion with lips curved upward in amusement around their cigarettes. My mother honked the car horn again impatiently.

"I'll call you," with that, I walked away, leaving Kyle standing there with a painfully upset look twisted onto his face. I briefly thought that it was best if I didn't contact him at all - but I wasn't that strong. Kyle sure as hell didn't need anyone like me in his life, but I needed him.

I opened the door to the passenger side of my mother's SUV and climbed in, knowing that later on, I'd wish that I'd said a better goodbye.

* * *

"Don't be difficult, Stanley."

Randy Marsh crossed his arms and spoke sternly while his wife Sharon almost seemed to hide behind him, eyes brimming with tears. Their son's room was already a disaster - the blinds on his window were nearly torn off, books were scattered everywhere with missing pages, and there were even dents and holes in the walls where things were thrown in a fit of anger. The sixteen year old pulled a blue chullo over his raven hair and glared coldly.

"Stop _calling_ me that, goddammit!" Sharon began to sob and quickly left the room, leaving her husband to deal with the current issue.

"Fine then. _Craig," _Randy glared back at the teen, obviously furious, but also a bit sad at being forced to call his son by a name he hadn't given him. Said boy rolled his eyes, picked up a blue beanie that was topped with a red puff ball, and tossed it into a suitcase. It was Stan's favorite hat, and he would most likely be very irritated with Craig if he forgot to pack it. He intentionally pushed over a desk lamp as he reached over to collect clothing from the closet.

"Why do you have to upset your mother like this?" Randy frowned under his dark mustache and Craig tossed his half of Stan's wardrobe into the suitcase. More dark teeshirts, ripped skinny jeans, plenty of articles with chains and band logos. Stan hated Craig's fashion sense, so luckily for the latter, he was never around when Craig was; even though Craig was always mentally present when Stan had control. The teen shrugged and gave the older man a toothy grin.

"Well, she's not _my _mother. Besides, it's fun," After saying this, Craig chuckled at how Randy's face grew a darker shade of red and wished Stan could see how hilarious his father looked while he was that angry.

"Dammit, Sta- _Craig! _Show some respect for once!" Craig raised a dark eyebrow in amusement at how riled up Stan's father was becoming.

"How about in the form of my middle finger?" The dark-haired teen raised his middle finger accordingly and Randy opened his mouth to yell something but shut it again and stormed off, slamming the door behind him and muttering something about the boy being a lost-cause. Craig heaved a sigh, thankful that he was finally left in peace. He looked around the trashed bedroom and almost felt sorry for robbing Stan of the last moments he had to spend with his family for a while. Almost. He finished packing his suitcase and sat down on the carpeted floor with crossed legs and a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He didn't know if he'd continue to exist after the next trip to the Stoley Centre. But it was worth it if he was able to see Tweek again.

* * *

**.A/N.  
Hopefully the next chapter is longer.**


	3. Chapter Two: Disposable Teens

**.A/N. Ugh, I'm soooo unhappy with this one. I just really kinda rushed through it because it's been sitting for a while.**  
**Please forgive me. Dx Once again, please pardon spelling/grammar mistakes. Spell check hates me.**

Disclaimer and warnings on the first chapter.

_Ouch, I have lost myself again  
__Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found  
__Yeah I think that I might break  
__I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe  
_-Breath me by Sia

_

* * *

_

Take a moment and think about how different you would be if your mind didn't work like everyone else's. Eventually you'd get to a point in your life when you just feel like nothing has a purpose. You can try to make things work for years, but to only wind up worse than ever. And the only reason for not ending it all is the fear of hurting the ones you love. Not that they would care much anyway. You just shift into automatic and watch the days go by, wondering how different the simplist of tasks would be if you were normal. The people who know you the most don't really know you at all and even when you're not alone, the loneliness doesn't leave. You can hope for a solution or a savior, but then you might wake up one day and the reality of your fucked up world crashes around you. At least, that's what things were like for me.

I first began losing hope in getting better after Craig's violent action towards my dentist in seventh grade. For as long as I could remember I've been told that Craig wasn't real, that he was more like a bad imaginary friend than anything. Even though I've always known that he wasn't a seperate person, Craig had always been a huge part of my life. I found it difficult to decide whether or not this was a bad thing. He was one of the only constants in my life. It had always been just me, Kyle, and Craig - and Kyle couldn't even be there with me at the Stoley Centre, when I needed him most. Being at the Stoley Centre failed at getting rid of Craig. It was there that I learned how to hide him.

It was also there that we met Tweek, and my alter decided that he didn't want to hide anymore.

* * *

**.Chapter Two.  
**_Disposable Teens_

* * *

They say that you should never judge a book by its cover. The first time I arrived at the Stoley Treatment Centre for Adolescents, my first impression of it was positive for the most part. I was nervous to say the least, but the clean white building surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn and colourful flowers of all sorts comforted me enough to pull my suitcase out of my father's vehicle and tentatively start toward the front doors. The second time around, I wasn't as trusting.

"Come on, Stanley. We don't have all day," I gave my mother the iciest glare I could manage and she merely rolled her eyes and stepped out of the car, walking around to open my door. I crossed my arms and fixed my glare on to the back of the headrest in front of me. My older sister, Shelly, snorted and stepped out of the car as well, taking my suitcase with her.

"You're not making this easy, turd," despite the statement, her tone implied sadness that she kept from showing on the outside. My sister had never gone out of her way to be kind to me, but she never had to. It was easy to tell when she cared.

My faced softened for a split second before twisting into irritation again. The twenty year old clicked her tongue and gave me a blank look before roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the car, shutting the door after me. My father took this as a cue to lock the doors so I couldn't reenter the vehicle. Now angered beyond belief, I thunked my forehead against the window and released an unintelligable, frustrated cry. After a moment, I lifted my head again and nearly had a heart attack at the shock of seeing another boy who appeared to be my age across the parking lot, eyes focused on me. It was difficult to tell from the distance, but it seemed as if he were torn between being annoyed and amused. Face flushed in embarassment at my childish outburst, I forced a glare and my face twisted in disgust at his choice of clothing. He was dressed in all black from his worn-out converse to his turtle neck sweater. I almost rolled my eyes at the crimson orbs peering through his black fringe.

_Red contacts? Is this guy for real? I hate faggy goth kids._

For once, I agreed with Craig. The stranger continued staring until a tired looking middle-aged woman handed him a red duffel bag and began ushering him toward the building. I grimaced when Shelly handed me my suitcase, but took it anyway and reluctantly made my way after the dreaded building. Craig began humming a medley of Lady Gaga songs and I grunted in irritation.

"Shut up." My mother and sister looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head. "Not you."

My mom quickly turned around, but not before I saw the pained expression on her face. Shelly sighed and returned to the car, as she was never one for goodbyes.

The interior of the lobby looked the same as it did the last time I checked in. An unpleasant lime green carpet covered the floor and awkwardly met the beige walls at a fringe. Paintings of scenery were hung to give a calming vibe that was sure to be ruined at the sight of a rack of several pamphlets about a variety of pychological and neurological disorders. The goth kid from the parking lot took one and began to flip through it with a bored look as who appeared to be his mother tapped her foot impatiently. I supressed the urge to plug my nose at the chemical smell of bleach that filled the room obnoxiously. A boy in a light green flannel sat across the room from the goth and quickly averted his eyes when I met his curious gaze. I quirked an eyebrow and continued to observe my surroundings.

I noticed that the receptionist was new. During my first visit at the Stoley centre, Kevin Stoley himself worked the front desk because of a shortage of staff. The new employee looked to be rather young - at most in his early twenties. Though he wore a white coat like most of the people who worked at the centre, the brunet hardly looked professional. His coat was unbuttoned and threatening to fall off, showing a black wife-beater that revealed a muscular upper body. His feet rested on the desk, dark mud-caked combat boots looking out of place in the clean building. His green eyes studied me and he reached for a cigarette that was tucked behind his ear before quickly pulling his hand back again, as if remembering that he shouldn't smoke on the job.

"_Shit!"_

I was quickly jolted from my thoughts and the boy with the green flannel covered his mouth, face flushed in embarrassment. He looked away from me and attempted to stifle a few more profanities before falling silent again.

"Ne l'écoutez pas." The young receptionist spoke in a bored tone, ruffling his chocolate brown hair. I cocked my head and he stared back, as if I were stupid for not understanding him.

"Don't listen to Thomas," he said, this time in English that was embellished with a thick accent, "Ze boy 'as Tourette's." I squinted my eyes to read the man's nametag, which read _Christophe Delourne _in bold cursive. A very French sounding name.

_Ooh, European. If you could forget Kyle and lust after this guy instead, I would be soooo happy._

"Shut _up," _I hissed, making the mistake of looking at Christophe while saying this. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"What was zat, punk?" His chiseled jaw twitched slightly and I had a feeling that he wasn't someone I wanted to anger. I reminded myself that I really should have started learning to not respond to Craig verbally.

"I wasn't talking to you..." I looked around nervously, afraid of starting conflict with someone I didn't even know. My mother gave me another pained look and turned to speak to Christophe, but he beat her to the punch.

"Name?"

"Uh, Marsh."

The young man softly sighed and swung his feet off of the desk before turning to a computer. I briefly wondered how long he had been working at the Stoley Centre and if he was often allowed to be so unprofessional. He looked back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Stanley Marsh, yes?" I nodded. After a few clicks of the mouse, he swerved his chair back to us and scratched his chin. I noticed that he also needed a shave as he was sporting a five o'clock shadow.

_Are they that desperate for employees? _I bit my tongue to refrain from responding to Craig yet again.

"You're early. Take a seat."

_That accent is delicious. _I bit harder. It was obvious that Craig was just trying to get on my nerves, and it was working. My mother sat in a chair near the goth boy's mother, and it wasn't long before she was striking up a conversation and discreetly glancing from me to the dark-clad teen, obviously wanting me to be social and introduce myself. I rolled my eyes and plopped into the chair next to him. He shifted uncomfortably before glaring coldly, his red contacts adding points for eeriness.

"Hey, I'm-"

"Stanley. I know," I gaped at the boy and he sneered, rolling his eyes while gesturing to the front desk. "Christophe said it already, smart one." He returned to glaring at me and I coughed into my sleeve, trying to avoid eye contact. First day back and I was already making myself out to be stupid.

"You can just call me Stan."

"I'll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you." My jaw dropped and I scrambled for words. It was common for me to be rendered speechless when so blatantly offended. Both of our mothers snapped their heads in our direction, mine looking quite shocked while the other boy's looked unsurprised but irritated.

"Damien, behave yourself!" Said boy rolled his red eyes and sneered while I shifted to the furthest away corner of my chair. Christophe looked up over his feet that were once again propped up on the front desk and raised a brown eyebrow in amusement. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned to see my mother who leaned toward me but shot a venomous glare at Damien.

"Why don't you just sit over here with me, hun?"

"Yeah, go sit with mommy, Stanley," Damien snorted at his own words and wrinkled his slightly prominent nose, which I was seriously beginning to consider breaking. He didn't flinch, but merely glared when I stood and grabbed the color of his black turtleneck.

"What the hell is your problem, asshole? I didn't do anything _wrong _to you!" The goth went silent and stared at me, as if thinking of a proper reply. He narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin before gently prying my hand from his sweater.

"...Anger issues?" My eyebrows slowly began to knit together at not only the change of subject but the change of his tone. He seemed genuinely curious. "Nah, that's not it. Normal response to my behavior, I suppose..."

I noticed his mother rolling her eyes when I glanced to the side. My own mother looked very confused and seemed torn between listening in and immediatly dragging me away from the strange teen. Damien just shrugged and stared at the carpet.

"...Probably something weird. Like coprophilia." A rather obnoxious snort came from behind the front desk, followed by booming nasally laughter. Christophe was practically doubled over and Damien donned a barely visible smile while the joke was completely lost on me. I decided to ignore the comment, as it was most likely some sort of insult.

"Split personalities." The small smile dropped from Damien's face and the contemplative look was back.

"Apotemnophilia." At first I thought he was actually trying to correct me, but then realized he was telling me what was wrong with himself - which was actually the more logical explanation in the first place, but I was still irritated so it was hard for me to think straight. I sat back down next to him and expected the conversation to be over until he continued to speak.

"You probably don't even know what that means." I merely shrugged. I didn't know, but I also didn't want to give him a direct answer. He seemed to understand regardless.

"Let's put it like this..." He spoke with a mischevious glint in his eyes. "When I was little, my father used to tell me that if I fell asleep with my arm or leg hanging off the edge of my bed, a monster would come and-" he leaned toward me and hooked his fingers into claws, immitating the creature of his story, "-_rrrrrip_ it off of my body. Just for fun." Damien laughed at his own words, but I felt a little too uncomfortable to join in. I still had no idea what he was trying to tell me. When the boy stopped snickering, he looked at me through his long lashes and smirked.

"If I were you, I'd tuck myself in _reeeeeal _tight at bedtime, Stanley."

Aside from the harsh scolding of Damien's mother, the room fell silent and the mood was uneasy. Even Christophe seemed to pale a bit, which may have had something to do with the fact that he most likely knew what the goth's condition was. I looked to Thomas for a clue, but he seemed to be in his own world, working on a crossword puzzle in the back of a magazine and muttering the occasional swear word.

"Stanley Marsh?"

Part of me wanted to cringe at the thought of the person calling my name, but most of me was just releived to hear a familiar voice.

_FUUUUUCK! He works here? Walk out, Stan. Leave, please._

However, Craig couldn't stand Gregory as much as I could. I could understand, though - Dr. Yardale came off as a prick and was quite the douchebag when you got on his bad side.

_Pretty please, Stan. With a goddamn mother fucking cherry on top. Don't make us stay here with that asshole._

I smiled politely and made my way towards the blond man. He smiled pleasantly back and removed his hand from the pocket of his white lab coat to shake mine.

_Stan, if you don't leave the building now, I swear to god, I will rape your brain. I will RAPE the SHIT out of it._

Even though I wasn't too happy to see the man either, Craig's anger put humor into the situation. My mother gave Gregory a warm hug as they said their greetings, and he turned back to me.

"I know you must be confused as to why _I'm _here." He ran his fingers through his hair, as if to make sure it was still neatly slicked back in place. "Dr. Stoley insisted that each patient have his personal psychiatrist around for frequent visits."

_I hate him. Tell him I hate him, faggot._

"Well, it seems like you've already finished all the paperwork..." He checked his clipboard and set it down on the front desk in front of Christophe, who then proceeded to lift his chin so he could see the man over his boots to give him a nasty look. Gregory only smiled.

_Tell him I hate him!_

"So I guess I'll just show you to your room... if you'll just follow-"

_Tell him!_

Now incredibly annoyed, I pinched the bridge of my nose and held my hand up to stop the man from speaking. "Craig says he hates you."

My mother immediatly looked horrified and began scolding me for my rude behavior. Gregory's smile dropped and a curious glint entered his eyes.

"Well, then. It's a good thing he won't be around for long."

As much as I wanted to laugh, I couldn't help feeling very unsettled.

* * *

"_Kyle! _Get down here and eat your dinner!"

Socked feet dragged their way to the bedroom door as a pale hand with slender digits peeked out of an over-sized sweater to turn the lock on the handle. That same hand was raised to rub at red puffy eyes that were threatening to spill tears at any moment.

"I'm not eating!" Kyle Broflovski hoarsly yelled back, though he knew he sounded childish. He scolded himself for being an emotional wreck after Stan's departure, but at the same time he felt that if he didn't get upset, that would make him a bad best friend. The redhead ignored the muffled rants of his mother from downstairs and slumped back into his bed, setting his iPod to a playlist with nothing but songs from the 80s that everyone else he hung out with deemed "lame and outdated". Checking his phone, he sighed at the sight of three missed calls - all from Bebe, who was probably wanting to cheer him up somehow. He decided to ignore her and toss the phone to the end of the bed, burying his face in his pillow. After a few moments, he lifted his head again and stared at said cell phone.

He could always just text Stan. Or _call _him. The thought brought a small smile to his lips and he inwardly chided himself for his behavior.

After all, it wasn't as if Stan was gone for good.

* * *

**.A/N. That story Damien tells Stan? My friend's mother actually told her that when she was little. xD Also, that story is NOT the reason why he turned out the way he did.**

**NOTE! About Damien's condition... He'd never acted on it, so that's why he's allowed at the Centre. But soon we'll see that the employees are keeping a close eye on him.**

If there's a word you don't understand, please look it up. Others can explain conditions/disorders better than I can. :)


End file.
